Hacked For Love & The Dom's Songbird: A Billionaire Romance Collection

by Michelle Love

  If anything, he looks skeptical. “I'll think about it.”

  “That's it?” Now I'm really getting annoyed. “You'll think about it.”

  “Yes.” He looks down firmly into my eyes, that faint smile teasing his lips again. “You have set the delays in place as I requested. I won't move hastily on a permanent solution—that is what caused this problem in the first place.”

  It's true—and again, it stings more for being true. I glare up at him, my mouth working.

  His expression softens as he catches the look in my eyes. “I'm not saying these things to humiliate you, Robin. I'm just saying…we can't be hasty.”

  “I just want this guy gone,” I mumble, looking down. “I want to make sure he doesn't hurt you because of what I did, damn it. You think I like the idea that Marcone might send more goons before we can even try to convince him to look elsewhere?”

  “If he does, he does. This place is protected. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure,” he tucks some of my stray hairs behind my ear as he leans over me intimately, “that even if he comes here with a fucking tank, the two of us will be safe from him.”

  I’m trembling. I should pull away. I hold still.

  “Why are you doing this?” I gasp, finally managing to move back from him a little.

  He blinks at me a few times before leaning on his desk. “You’ve never had someone flirt with you? Not catcalling, not anything creepy, but just flirt with you?”

  I stare at him, at a loss, and finally mutter, “I don’t interact with people much anymore. But…no. On the streets, lone girls avoid men. And after that, I was…busy.”

  It sounds like a cop-out, but I don’t want to go into detail—that painful mix of loneliness and fear that battles inside of me whenever I think of men and sex.

  I can’t remember being flirted with by anyone who wasn’t either kidding or trying to exploit me. Spider and most of his boys were gay. Nobody who approached me while I was homeless had good intentions. And men on the internet seem to enjoy being as disgusting as possible.

  The incentive to make a connection has never been there for me. The incentive to stay cautiously alone always has been.

  But when he stands near me—when he touches me—I want him to do it more. It scares me. Can I trust myself? This feeling? Him? Is it safe?

  I suddenly find myself silently blinking back tears.

  “Hey,” he says, worry crossing his face as he straightens again and moves toward me, gently raising a hand. His voice is soft. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  I sniffle and hold up my hands, mortified. “Look, I…you’re attractive, and if you’re really the kind of guy you seem to be now that I’m getting to know you, I could learn to trust you. But I’m just not there yet.”

  My voice cracks. I look away, totally humiliated. Staring out at the city, I mutter almost angrily. “Guys like you don’t understand what it’s like to go through what I have. You live in a palace. You fly a helicopter. You spend the kind of money I took from you on a weekend shopping spree.”

  “Guys like me?” He scoffs and drags over a chair to sit down beside me as I settle back into his desk chair. “You have no idea what I’m like, except for what I have let you see.”

  “And yet you expect me to trust you,” I retort.

  He sits back…and then smiles wryly. “You know what? You’re right. Ask me whatever you want to know.”

  I relax, starting to feel a little intrigued myself. “Fine. Uh…”

  I open my mouth to ask him who he used to launder money for, when suddenly an alarm shrills somewhere deep in the building. Drake’s phone rings at the same time.

  He stiffens, a hard, wary gleam coming into his eyes as he pulls out his phone. “Hold that thought.”

  Chapter 10

  Drake

  I’m finally getting somewhere with both the Marcone problem and Robin’s trust issues when all hell breaks loose. “What is it?” I snap as I answer my phone.

  I already know. Just not the specifics.

  “Drake, they busted through the bollards and armored glass with a tractor trailer. They’re inside.” I hear John shouting over the shrilling alarm. “Twelve men that we know of!”

  Fuck. “Marcone’s men?”

  “Safe bet, though they’re in ski masks. Your orders?”

  In the back of my head I start swearing in Russian and making plans. Nasty plans. “Condition Omega. Scatter into three-man teams, pick them off using guerrilla tactics, track them constantly on the security cameras to stay agile. Do not get close to them. I can’t afford to have anyone taken hostage.

  “Do not make a stand at the penthouse. If they get up this far, lock them in, put the elevator out of service and call the police to pick them up. Let my panic doors do their job. If they somehow find a way through, the helicopter is prepped.”

  My voice has gone cold, and I hear the faintest return of my accent. It happens when I’m under enough stress, and right now I want to kick ass and don’t have a deserving target nearby. “I want updates every minute. Text if you can’t talk.” I hang up.

  “Oh God.” Robin is shivering next to me, her lovely face showing the terror of a trapped animal.

  One glance at the haunted, familiar look of despair in her eyes, and my rage gets shoved aside by something far more urgent. I can’t stand seeing it. It stuns me that she’s gotten under my skin this much already, but I go with it.

  I turn to her and hug her gently, cradling her head in my palm as I draw her against my chest. “It’s okay. Stay calm. I’ve prepared for this.”

  She stiffens in my grip. Then a long shudder goes through her as she digs her fingers into my shirtfront and buries her face in my chest. “What do we do?”

  I pet her hair gently until she calms down enough to look up at me. “Building’s going on lock-down, and I’m armed. Do you know how to use a pistol?”

  She shakes her head, looking embarrassed.

  “All right then, here’s the deal. They are not breaking in here. The only way that we can possibly come in contact with them is if they intercept us on the way out.” I want to hold her again, comfort her more, but she’s nodding, snapping out of it already—and there’s no time.

  “Should we just fly out and leave them trying to get into an empty penthouse?” she asks, and I stop to consider. She isn’t handling the prospect of waiting out a siege well. If I give a damn, I shouldn’t ask her to stay, even if I’m fine with it.

  “Get your coat on. The temperature’s dropping pretty fast.” Past the polarized windows, I can see the rain turning into thin swirls of snow. “I’ve got a safe house in the Hamptons. I’ll fly us over there and let the police and security mop up here.”

  She nods and goes to take her coat out of the closet by the entry door, moving shakily. I already miss her warm, slight body against me. But once we’re in the Hamptons…perhaps she’ll want to celebrate our escape.

  John buzzes me again. “We’ve disabled two and trapped two more in sealed rooms. The police are en route. I’ve directed their ’copter to the far side of our helipad. Ten minutes.”

  “Good. Keep at it.” I look up to see Robin wrapping herself in that camel-colored coat. “Okay,” I call over to her. “Pack up the computers while I get my gun. We’re out of here.”

  She smiles and nods, hurrying back to the desk. “Thank you.” The relief on her face does me a world of good.

  Apparently, my heart doesn’t care if her hair’s green either.

  I turn to my gun safe and pull out my shoulder holster and Berettas, strapping them on. “I have been in too many dangerous situations,” I explain. “I forget that what I see as a fortress may feel like a trap to someone else.”

  The phone rings. John again. “Update?” I ask—just as I hear the heavy thrum of a helicopter approaching.

  “We’ve got a helicopter coming in to land from the northeast. Can’t get a clear look at it in all this snow, but the police gave me a pre
tty fast ETA.”

  I frown. Something about this seems off. But if the police have shown up early and want to trap Marcone’s men between two teams, it’s not a bad plan. “Try and raise that chopper to give them landing clearance; we’ll hole up until they’ve set down.”

  I hang up and see Robin has packed the two laptop bags and is hugging mine to her chest like a shield. “Okay, the cops are landing on the roof. I want you to follow me, but not too closely. They might ask us to shelter in place until they’re done with their roundup.”

  She nods and follows me as I go over to the mirrored wall beside my home gym. I press a hidden panel and a section of mirror slides back and aside with a click. Beyond, a tight spiral staircase ascends into the dark.

  I check with John. “Are they ready for us?”

  “They’ve touched down,” comes the reply. “Rotors are powering off.”

  “On our way then. I’ll call you back when we’re clear of the building.” I hang up. I’m aware of my pistols as I come up the stairs with Robin behind me, but I don’t draw them. If the cops see me with a firearm in hand, they may shoot first.

  “Hang back a bit,” I murmur to her as I reach the top and unlatch the heavy steel door.

  I don’t know what makes me feel so cautious as I duck my head around the low, curved door frame. Maybe it’s that, aside from Robin’s presence, the night’s been a total shit-show. Maybe it’s because Robin is close behind me, and I’m still thinking of her safety.

  And I’ve never trusted cops much either. Cops can be biased. They can drop a tank on one man and slap the other on the back of the hand for the same crime. They can also be bribed.

  I see four figures moving toward me from the dark hulk of the second helicopter, and for a moment, I start to lift a hand in greeting. But then I see the gleam of weapons in their hands as they raise them.

  And apparently police helicopters can be stolen!

  “Fuck!” I duck back inside, clawing my pistol from its holster. “Get back—it’s not the cops!”

  Robin lets out a cry of dismay, and I hear her bolt back down the stairs. Good girl.

  Now to deal with my unwanted guests.

  I hear running feet coming toward us, and I fire blind around the corner—hearing grunts and yelling. I empty my other Beretta the same way, hearing a sharp cry and a few curses. Then I hear those booted feet scramble for cover.

  It’s a relief, but there’s something I didn’t want Robin to realize. We’re actually in some trouble.

  If I lock us in, they’ll take off again and fire on the windows. If I let them in, they’ll have a chance to hurt Robin, and that can’t happen. I weigh my options as I reload, unimpressed by all of them.

  Unless...

  The shooting has stopped. I duck my head around to check my bearings—and nearly get pegged between the eyes. Ugh, sneaky bastards!

  But the risk I took does the job; I know what to do now. I fire blind again—but angle my shots carefully, hearing them bite into the side of the helicopter.

  A heavy patter and glug of liquid, and a whole lot of cursing in Italian, tell me that I’ve hit the bullseye. No way to take off with a hole in the fuel tank and my helicopter is impossible to hot-wire—though I’m guessing they’re about to waste a lot of time trying it while their butts freeze off.

  I grab the door and slam it shut, leaving the cursing mobsters on the other side. The stink of cordite fills the stairway. I hold my breath and holster my guns.

  I come back down laughing. “They’re locked on the roof with no way down until the police get to them,” I say as I step out of the secret door and close it behind me. My ears still echo with gunfire; I feel a little giddy.

  Robin is staring at me. She’s set the computer bags down on the desk and walks over to me slowly, worry breaking over her face.

  I hesitate. “What is it?”

  “You’re bleeding,”

  I look down at myself—and see that there’s a hole under the arm of my suit jacket, and finally feel that something underneath stings. Blood is seeping slowly through the fabric. “Oh.”

  Damn.

  Chapter 11

  Robin

  The suddenly intensifying snowstorm is delaying the police. There are mobsters trapped on the roof, and more mobsters are trapped in the building. We have no way out…but we can outlast them.

  I keep telling myself all of this as I sit Drake down on the edge of his huge bathtub and gingerly peel off his suit coat, shirt, and undershirt. Every layer has tears in it where the bullet passed through. I try not to stare at his massively muscled, tattooed torso as I toss the cloth in the sink and peer closely at the wound.

  “How bad is it?” he grunts as he lifts his arm.

  I examine it a moment and then lean back, surprised and a bit more hopeful. He didn’t exactly dodge the bullet, but…close enough.

  “Not bad at all. It’s long and shallow and already clotting. But it has to be disinfected, and it will probably have a bruise around it.” I’m trying to be brave. Blood really isn’t something I’m used to dealing with. But I really want to help. “How are your ribs?”

  He takes an experimentally deep breath. “Little sore. Might have cracked one, but I’ve got no sharp pains, and no trouble breathing. An inch to the left though, and the bullet would have taken a chunk out of me.”

  “I’m just glad you were lucky.” I take off my coat and boots, knowing we won’t be going anywhere, and toss them aside before crouching in front of him to examine the wound more closely. Then I reach into the first aid kit I retrieved from the closet and take out some alcohol swabs.

  He sits quietly while I tend to him, not wincing or flinching once.

  “So, you’re Russian,” I comment as I gently clean the wound.

  “Yes, I was born in Moscow. And before you ask, I’m not part of any bratva anymore.” His Russian is so perfect that it turns even that one word into music. “But I needed their protection as a teenager in prison, and it took me many years to buy my way out.”

  My heart sinks with unexpected sympathy. He had no choice? That certainly seems to fit with what I have seen of his character, more than the idea that he’s a particularly fluent liar. But then again…I’m biased.

  “I see. There are still rumors around that you’re an active member of…something.” The wound bleeds a little bit as I clean it, but it’s more a long, ugly scrape than anything serious. “Don’t think I can judge you for making a deal, especially if you were a kid when you went inside. Russian prisons are infamous.”

  “They are indeed,” he rumbles in a low, tired voice. But I can see relief on his face. Was he that worried that I would judge him? Happy to disappoint.

  I’ve learned my lesson about jumping to negative conclusions about Drake Steele.

  I wash the blood off of him gently, fascinated by the smooth ripple of muscle up his side. “How does that feel?” I murmur distractedly.

  “Your nursing skills are top-notch,” he purrs in response, and I reluctantly straighten. “This history of mine...it doesn’t bother you?”

  I have to think about it before answering him, so maybe it does a little. In the end, though, I admit the truth. “I always knew you had a past. I just didn’t know what it was.” My tone is more tender than I want it to be, but less tender than I feel. “I guess we both have histories we’re trying to get away from.”

  He stares at me intensely for a few moments and then stands, towering half-naked over me. I straighten, looking up at him—and he takes me in his arms. “I’m glad you understand.”

  Oh my God, he’s half-naked. I freeze and look up at him—and feel his heart beating fast against my breasts. “I’m surprised,” I mumble, my fingertips trailing shyly up his chest. “I…I got you shot.”

  “No, I got me shot. I should have waited until we confirmed their damn identities before opening the roof access.” His huge hand strokes back through my hair, and I feel the muscles in my neck loosen at the caress. />
  I want to melt into his arms all of a sudden. We’re trapped in here, and it might be hours before we can leave. It scares me—stifles me. Waiting for a police rescue almost feels like a joke…but I’m inside a fortress right now. Safe. With him.

  I want him to drown out this caged feeling that I just can’t get rid of. I throw my arms around his neck and lean against him—and his mouth comes down on mine and steals my breath.

  His lips and tongue work against mine insistently, teasing out my response until I’m kissing him back just as fiercely. I’m clumsy, nervous; I’ve got no clue what I’m doing. My legs wobble, and he scoops me up against him. I cling to him like a rock in a storm.

  His mouth tastes like a mix of coffee, brandy, and mint, and he holds me in a grip that’s too firm to break, but doesn’t hurt at all. I feel the play of his lips against mine all the way down to my thighs, and suddenly I can’t catch my breath.

  Oh my God, I never imagined… It’s like someone shot me full of a drug I’ve never heard of, waking up every inch of my skin, leaving me filled with pleasure and thirsty for more. I whimper against his lips, my heartbeat in my ears, my back arching to press more of myself against him.

  When the kiss breaks, he backs off just a little and looks down at me, breathing heavily. One hand cups my jaw. “You all right?” he asks me, very gently checking in.

  It’s his tenderness that reassures me more than anything, despite the scary newness of it all. If he was faking…why bother? Why not just push me into it?

  I smile at him shyly and nod, and he kisses me again even more fiercely.

  Then his damned phone goes off again.

  “Shit. John. It slipped my mind for a moment.” He smiles at me, winks, and pulls out his phone. “Hi. I’m alive. Those weren’t the police, though.”

  I can hear a man’s voice faintly through the speaker. “Yeah, I have them on the line asking for clearance. Looks like Marcone’s boys used their own ’copter. They slapped on some dummy decals, and we couldn’t see them clearly in the storm. Are you all right?”

  “I got hit, but it was just a graze. Probably won’t need stitches even, but I should have the ribs X-rayed later. I do have to tend to this, though…” He looks me over with heat in his eyes, and his grip around my waist tightened slightly. “As well as some related unfinished business. Any problems downstairs?”